


Tigerlily

by chocolatemilk2



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Action, Angst, Crazy Jim, Drama, I'm horrible with money disregard the ridiculous price guesses, Implied Drug Use, M/M, Present Tense, Sebastian Moran POV, Unbeta'd, nicknames abound, unbrit-picked
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-16
Updated: 2012-07-16
Packaged: 2017-11-10 02:25:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/461230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chocolatemilk2/pseuds/chocolatemilk2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim's intelligence is growing increasingly crazed and his obsession with Sherlock even more worryingly unhealthy. When Jim gives Sebastian a suicide-grade job on someone Sherlock intimately knows, Sebastian must decide how much of Jim is his jealousy and whether to forgive or betray the only friend he has left.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tigerlily

Sebastian has always known Jim was insane, in that quiet way he knows all his shoelaces are black and he’ll never have a proper life.

“Why don’t you head to bed,” he suggests subduedly, curving a hand around the edge of Jim’s jaw. It’s not a bed, they don’t have a bed. It’s a mattress on the ground with a ratty pillow and a blanket, like one of those Japanese futons. Sebastian doesn’t know how you would willingly sleep on one of those things regularly given the choice, but he knows Jim does feel safer being close to the stash at all times.

See, there’s a stupid amount of money stuffed behind their bed in the gap between the carpet and the wall. Jim keeps another wedged under the eaves where you can reach out the flat’s high right-hand window. Sebastian doesn’t know where Jim keeps the guns or the drugs. It’s supposed to be a safe house. It’s probably not.

“Client,” Jim clips out. Bullshit it is. It’s that stupid arse, Sherlock Holmes. You can tell. The gleam in Jim’s eye is more profound now and he holds up consciously.

Sebastian’s not to mention it. He looks away. “Paying you well, I hope.”

“Always.”

Never, actually. No money out of this blood game. Holmes pays Jim in thrills. Not even intentionally. Doesn’t even mean it! He’s like an amnesic prostitute, Sebastian thinks, if people that posh actually bothered to sell themselves.

That’s right, isn’t it? Jim pays dearly for getting involved with the mad hunting hatter. Entertainment doesn’t come cheaply for a genius, Sebastian supposes, not when you can predict every little thing that comes along. Jim’s unendingly calling life so boring. The jobs are boring. The channels are boring. The people.

“Am I boring you?” Sebastian asks Jim. He’s been laying there in his splotched blue, lined with grey pullover and his faded jeans and socks. Forgivably anonymous. Good for the crime life.

“Sherlock makes me want to scrape the new sun into discretion right _now._ I would chase him on the shadowed streets until his nightly figure cast deep in the torment of an inferiority he may have avoided otherwise. Little Shirly girly.”

It’s 4am. “I thought you said you were speaking with a client,” Sebastian replies, sitting up.

“Texting,” Jim corrects. “Precision avoids evasion. It wouldn’t hurt to keep a little more specific, tigger!”

He’s always like this, methodical madness. Sebastian would get someone to cast him as Hamlet given the chance if he didn’t think Jim would end up killing everyone for real. “Speaking to you is speaking to a brick wall.” He doesn’t mention Sherlock again though, because Jim’s always been touchy about him. Knows Sebastian worries, doesn’t like to be worried after, something respected and not feared. Doesn’t defend himself either. There is a bit of fear, to it.

“Holmes is my new client.” It’s always jarring how he switches from that overbearing familiarity to the professional detachment. “The difference between he and I, Moran, is that I am a brick wall. Solid and reliable, tough.”

“So I’m tigger, Holmes is goldilocks, and you’re a brick wall. I can see you have nothing but perfectly functioning relationships.” 

Jim glares. “Did I say you could question me?”

Silence again.

Sebastian thinks he should feel either resignedly submissive as a subordinate or indignantly offended as a soldier but he’s neither. He goes to the pantry and shrieks when he finds a rat and stakes it with their kitchen knife. Jim laughs hard at him.

“It’s not funny,” Sebastian complains, rinsing the blood down the sink. “I have to cook using this now. All our meals will probably have trace diseases in them.”

“That’s fine.” Probably’ll make Jim’s life more interesting to him, to have different poisons running through his hands on a daily basis. But bad for Sebastian. That’s the thing about Jim, you can never quite trust him not to just let you die. He’s too busy being untouchable to form basic attachments.

It’s good in a way, Sebastian thinks, keeps the staff turnover high. Nobody’s around long enough to stab them in the back. Fresh faces are interesting, and there’s always someone new.

The room is quiet, cast in deep shadows of blue and black which look a bit like bruises on the soft carpet floor. It is late, and there’s that double layered silence of night where everyone is asleep and no normal noises can be made. Everything’s still but them. Sebastian’s hands look ghostly contrasted against the floor, a bright white they never are in the day. But not as white as Jim.

“I want you to take a hit on Wilkes,” Jim says.

“When?” Sebastian inquires, scrubbing at the spot where it died. Blood under his fingernails again.

“Whenever you can. You know how well protected the high ups are, this one’ll take a little prep first. The Gollum would ask too much for this job, and besides, it’s too sensitive. I need someone of your capabilities.”

The compliment, stated like a fact (to pressure him into the job he would do anyway) sets Sebastian’s ears burning. Perhaps it’s the double entendres. _Prep…. Sensitive_ … _Capabilities_. Jim does it to put him off. Likes to see how much he can get away with before Sebastian’s teeth go on edge. Not like him.

A glance up. “Wilkes is trying to outmanoeuvre me, that’s why.”

“I didn’t ask,” defends Sebastian.

Jim rolls his shoulders back and makes an exasperated gesture. “Asking, telling, there’s too many tells-- your body speaks as loud as your throat. Everyone and anyone presenting a black void of personality in the first three seconds. _Or_ him?”

“Don’t go into the white,” Sebastian begs. Jim doesn’t make any appearance of having heard; he stares into open, dark space with his eyes shock wide. Face, motionless, lips slightly parted in that way Sebastian recognizes. He’s about to start speaking too rapidly to comprehend.

Sebastian gives up on the new stain on the counter and throws himself back on the bed. He buries his face in the stiff pillow and wishes it all away. He wants to sleep before Jim starts. Before their conversation ends.

Too late. Jim throws and bangs himself hard at the wall. Sebastian hears the springs in the mattress shriek as he leans forward the wrong way, the sticky press of his fingertips against the wallpaper. Sebastian can see it all over again, Jim pressing his forehead deep against the supporting frame as if trying to see through to their stolen goods. Trying to peer through the fabric of reality.

The buzzing starts. Incomprehensible words begin to slip through Jim’s lips, fragmented and distorted like some alien language. He springs from the wall; Sebastian starts and looks. Jim tips their kitchen chairs, throwing them on their sides and spinning one-legged on the bridge of their legs.

“No, no, no, no,” Jim recites. He has his head in his hands and he’s still talking about Sherlock.

Sebastian shuffles to the couch and turns on the television. He doesn’t need to bother looking; there’s nothing on. He hears the Korean newswoman chatter away laughing to her co-anchor. There’s subtitles and still Sebastian doesn’t know what they’re on about. His vision blurs and Sebastian stares at the space between the pixels.

Then that’s not good enough. Jim takes the table from his position and starts slamming it against the door, crack, crack, crack. His face is flushed with exertion and he’s begun to chant.

Sebastian stands, walks, and takes him by the arm.

“Jim,” Sebastian says, “Jim.”

Jim’s not paying attention. “Sherly surely sorely surly solely soldiery solidly solemnly shallowly sallowy sorrowing swallowing swirling sterling shoreling chortling—“

“Stop. He’s not here.”

“Vatican cameos damn, counter-intelligence, strategic alliance, backwards compliance, burning! Oh, burning.”

“Yes, you’re going to burn the heart out of him,” Sebastian feeds patiently. “He knows.”

Jim tears himself from Sebastian’s grip and begins to pace once more, every part of his frame agitated planning. Sebastian shuts his eyes.

“We’re going to need new furniture,” Sebastian murmurs, kneeling down by the couch on the floor. Of course they will. They always do. Jim knows how to control his swings so not to interrupt their daily business ops. When he’s not like this, that is.

Sebastian should hate the on-the-job mania the most, for the embarrassment (shame) it serves their ring; Sebastian knows Jim is genius shining through but most people, don’t. He can’t cope with the slander on his partner though he knows Jim can more than defend himself, he’s a whirlwind force.

This is still worse. Watching Jim make a bad show without a proper audience, teeth clenching and eyes straining. Reasonless, his incessant grating. “Please, Jim. Come on.” Sebastian fetches him a glass and leads him back to bed.

Jim smashes the glass and trails the soaking shards down Sebastian’s trickling forearm. “Warned you.”

_No you didn’t. You just told me. Like that’s at all the same._

Sebastian sweeps the excess away; Jim makes an agitated sound and snatches them all back. Sebastian lets him.

“I’ll do the Wilkes job for you,” Sebastian promises.

Jim grins fiercely. His focus is half-in, half-out. “That’s what I keep you for.” He kisses the Colonel on the head.

Sebastian watches Jim roll onto his side. He grimaces, turns and stumbles onto his feet, then shuts out the light.

 _That’s what he keeps you for,_ the gun hidden in the lampshade whispers.

Silence slams and echoes.

Briefing’s shit. 

Sebastian gives an incredulous laugh as he realizes the client (no name given) wants the job done in a week. Like shit Sebastian will.

Kill Joe Bloe in a weak, easy peasy, kill Connie Prince in a week, yeah okay, kill High Profile CEO shithead on mixing with the Fortune 100 on his personal days off? Fucking please. Sebastian swallows. It sounds too appealing to turn this one down. He’s more than tempted to just reply with a hard _fuck off_.

Like fuck he’s risking this, even for cash cow anonymous. 1.2 bill. Enough to cripple an entire economy. What the hell is Jim planning to do with all that? It’s one sure fire way to attract the wrong attention.

Jim ordered it himself. Jim never gives Sebastian an order he doesn’t want followed. He never gives Sebastian his missions personally, either. This is obviously a special case.

Sebastian’s done fast demand before. It won’t be so different.

 _Accepted,_ his reply, auto-encrypted.

Intel on Wilkes certainly is more than fast forthcoming, considering the short time span and that Jim’s the one who’s arranged it. Sebastian heartily remembers the days when getting anything from anyone required bribes and petty crime in favour. He finds himself thinking he’s glad he now has the connections, then clamps down on the fact; illegal activity is never something you want to be permanently tied to. Sebastian supposes he is for his desirable status and record, but it’s never something he wanted for himself.

No one in the inner circle chooses to help him except those assigned. Either they’ve been warned away from by the high-stake details of the op or someone has specifically deigned that Sebastian work alone.

The first informant is too smart to speak ill of Jim, (text file: locations, habits, securities, professionalism) but the second, a slug who Sebastian knows cut the brakes on Princess Diana’s car, laughs in his face.

“You’re fucked over now, aren’t you?” he asks, waving his cigarette wildly in Sebastian’s face. “Suicide missions. There’s a reason why no one gets close to Jim Moriarty. He’ll kill you if you drop him and kill you if you stay.”

“I’ll die anyway,” Sebastian growls because he’s a criminal, he will. He doesn’t need it rubbed in his face.

Disbelieving snort. “You can’t mean that. Life’s life, kid. And Wilkes certainly enjoys it. Damn if I were him. Net worth 600 million—someone that hi-brow you don’t stand a chance. You know that, don’t you? You should run.”

Oh, fuck off. “I don’t have time for this.” He hates walking out in the open air. Makes him itchy.

“Off to write your will?” the despatcher’s voice drags after him.

“No, there’s rubies to steal today.” Sebastian straightens his shoulders as he finds pace. “Thanks for fuck all.”

“My pleasure. Tell the boyf I said hi. Oh, and nice goddamn knowing you.”

Sebastian fiddles with the drawstring of his hoodie as he tries to convince himself consulting Holmes would be a bad idea. He plans on sticking around yes; how long is the question.

 

Sebastian looks into it before he strikes. He’s glad and disappointed he does. He can’t go up against this. One man, a million defences. Sebastian doesn’t want to believe the slug is right. But fuck. How does he even approach that? How is it supposed to be anything except what it looks like?  

_Jim, I thought you were past testing me like this? I’m a marksman, not a scholar._

 

Sebastian lays into the plans. Approach Wilkes while he’s in the bathroom on the first floor from the garage side, overlay security footage with loops as usual. Targeting the upstairs bedroom during the night for best escape timing would be ideal, but home security has stepped up since the bank break in was managed through the high outside floor. _Fuck fuck fuck,_ Sebastian thinks. The estate is too large to target squatting behind a fence.

The man himself is cycling through his all-consuming timetable and the people who know him report him reclusive and depressed. Knows what’s coming to him, then. Sebastian half wishes that he’ll do it before he can so Sebastian doesn’t have to suffer through the agonizing process of revenge, but the boss giving away that much money on accident? Sebastian knows he might be valuable (valuable enough to entrust to this life’s fucking work mission at least), but he also knows he’s not 1.2 billion dollar valuable. It’s never been about the money to Jim, more about the power play.

Everyone already knows he’s a rich influential mad bastard. It’s not a matter of scope. He’s the best, with or without the price tag. Sebastian doesn’t understand why Jim isn’t just blackmailing the fuck out of this hi-brow client that would obviously give anything for Wilkes to go away (an entire fortune). What’s Jim planning?

He needs to get this over with soon before it drives his head in.

Sebastian scraps the bathroom scheme when it involves no windows and he can’t impersonate the staff for the crime because of identity checks. No time to make fake ID’s and the unofficial way involves looping the surveillance videos to hide his tracks which won’t look good—he’d rather destroy them utterly but the system has a built in tamper warning intruder alert. Can’t disable it without shutting out the power entirely. Who in their right mind links their security system to their power outlets? Too easy just to cause a power surge and ruin the whole thing but then there’s back up electricity, and black outs have been previously logged according to the electrical report, like all the lights going out wouldn’t be an obvious tell. Even at night, the whole house is lit up like a Tesco. Security would be instantly on guard, back to square one.

Wilkes must have more defences than the Queen. Or possibly Holmes senior.

Six days before deadline. Jim’s client (or is it just Jim? Sebastian isn’t so sure anymore) will kill him if he doesn’t have the plan and the deed done by then. Sebastian spends the first three days mapping his entry route, the fourth then he remaps it and memorizes Wilkes’ precise timetable, fifth visits the house, fixes security, and crawls in.

Two days left.

Sebastian finally makes his move.

 

The job starts off without a hitch. He successfully pulls Wilkes up into the attic while he crosses the dining room table for the hall inquiring to his late dinner. The chef has burnt the roast beef because the oven door’s jammed shut with a faulty screw (who said lock picking would never come seriously in handy?), and Sebastian jumps Wilkes from his hiding spot in the cleaning closet. It doesn’t even look suspicious for there to be rope kept inside just in case.

As fast as Sebastian’s muscles let him quietly he hauls the banker up the ladder and pulls it up, secures the latch. No alarm, no sensory identification. The attic is as still and silent as a photograph. A flash check of the rafters and loose roof shingle, his escape route on the all clear.

Sebastian cocks his pistol and the bullet rips through his wrist.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. In Sebastian’s mind he hears the moment the skin tears and the bones shatter. Blinding, brilliant pain. Trajectory states it fired through the wooden latch. Wilkes is still slumped, drugged and unconscious. Sebastian wants to pass out too, he’s bleeding all over the dust films. He’s not sure if the bullet meant for him or Wilkes or who shot it, whether to disarm or kill, and thinks in that horrible moment it could be Jim, gone mad himself.

Feet trample at the roof shingles; someone’s sold him out.

Sebastian thinks he’s trapped between two enemies for an awful moment and then he laughs and hits down the wall connecting to the other attic, stumbles the other way down the roof beams, passing from room attic to room like the kids from _Magician’s Nephew_. It’s a flaw in these stately homes, a need for impressive roofs and support systems. Sebastian’s footing gives out and he crashes through the ceiling to the dining table of a small parlour. Caroline Wilkes is sipping tea in there as he army rolls into a classically ornate chair. She rips out a stomach-knotting scream.

Sebastian scrambles to his feet and runs as fast as his feet will take him through the haze of pain, pushing the shock to the end of his mind. They heard it. They’re going to catch him, they’re on the roof, he can see them point. Sebastian’s hand whips painfully with his stride and through his desperate cling he can see the bullet’s torn right through.

 _Sprint._ Sebastian gets a leg on it not thinking about Wilkes alive or the shots tearing into the bald grass behind him or his last words to Jim.

 

Security’s on overhaul. Obvious from just looking on television. No chance at a reattempt, not like this.

Sebastian’s wrist flares with an unscratchable itch. He can’t try again. He’s not even sure if he can aim straight.

He can’t work in these conditions. Jim will probably kill him straight out.

Anonymous is paying 1.2 billion. Twice Wilkes’ worth. Anonymous obviously needs Wilkes dead. Quietly, most likely, that’s why he went to Jim. Otherwise the client could just bomb Wilkes’ house. The anonymous client won’t like this uproar. Jim won’t.

They might be both on their way to kill him right now. Who will get to him first, he wonders.

He can’t go back to the apartment. Sebastian camps it out at a state library between makeshift bandages and long sleeved hoodies. He doesn’t end up reading anything. Not even the trashy magazines’ advice columns. It reminds him too much of work. It all does. Smart things.

Sebastian can’t help the thought: if Jim wanted him dead, he’d be dead already.

Maybe it’s the mania stopping him. He’s probably still coming down from white, give it time.

 

 

 

One day.

Fuck.

 

Sebastian wonders how suicidal this is. There’s do a risky job for your evil overlord crazy and go to his sworn enemy for tentative advice on a mutual annoyance crazy. The phrase _stupid_ keeps drifting back into his head, no matter how hard he tries to quash it down; he has his gun, he has back up, he’ll have Watson.

He replays the alternative unwillingly in his head. Jim, you know that assassination job I do sometimes which has given me no trouble at all before? I’d like to ask you for some last-minute advice on it, and possibly ruin your agreement and negotiation, although I just fucked up the job and you’ve already gone out of your way gathering Intel for me on the presumption I’d follow through for whatever reason.

I tracked down the man in his house and he has eight guards trained on him at all times, continues his hypothetical self, slightly panicked, and he doesn’t seem to stray from his security watch or timetable even to piss. I thought you said he didn’t work in the government?

No, decides the colonel, it won’t be like that. He’ll ask Holmes for help and best case scenario the detective will think he’s manipulable and help him in exchange for info on Jim, worst case he’ll be dead (which was going to happen anyway). No, worst case he’ll be tortured, imprisoned and then killed. Always think positive, hey?

 _Get yourself together_. He gives himself a minute.

Sebastian jams the lock open, signals to his man in the flat doorway beside, and moves. He meets the good doctor at the other side of the door and shoves the barrel at the side of his face. Surprise registers for a moment before Watson jolts back, pinning Sebastian’s good wrist against the wall and his weapon out of their way—he’s disarmed long enough for the punch to come screaming at him.

Sebastian takes the blow and with his other hand uses its force to wrench Watson’s arms down behind his back. “March,” he mutters. This is already going wrong. Sebastian doesn’t want his initially message to Holmes to be one of armed hostility. He supposes it’s inevitable when dealing with this sort of threat.

“Sherlock!” Watson calls, warningly. So much for the doctor coming quietly.

They make the hall’s stairs, two at a time, and Sebastian kicks open Holmes’ unlocked door. “Knock knock.”

Holmes is sitting in a blue bathrobe at the couch. He has his violin steepled in long fingers by his chin and he wears a mask of vacant consideration.

“I come in peace,” Sebastian declares, tilting his gun. “On condition.”

“Moriarty didn’t send you, did he?” Holmes deduces. He draws his own gun (P226R, Afghanistan issue) from the fold of the couch and aims it to the arm with the gun against Watson’s neck. “But you know him.”

Sebastian marginally relaxes at Holmes’ recognition that Jim didn’t send him, then realizes this is what Holmes wants him to do. Too late. Holmes is already making his move, lunging for his weakened wrist to twist and slamming the door against his airway (fuck), and holding it there.

“I wouldn’t have fashioned one of Moriarty’s finest so dumb,” Holmes recognizes. “As good as bait, handed out on a platter like this. Are you alright, John?”

Perfunctory question, to put him off on home territory? Jim’s the same. Sebastian wonders how Holmes’d like that comparison.

“Fine,” John dismisses. A frown creases his brow; he obviously doesn’t like the bad business with Jim. “I’m sorry, who is this?”

“Colonel Sebastian Moran; war veteran assassin, crime figurehead second to James Moriarty. And here he is, snivelling like a common rat. Moran’s so masterful because of his ability to hide in plain sight; you’ll note despite soldier posturing he has a slight hunch, which means he’s used to keeping his head down; if you’re texting like that a person will dismiss you for anything. Moran likes to keep his hands in his pockets, away from view as you can see by the looseness of the stiff jean material, and he hasn’t properly scrubbed out the blood beneath his fingernails. Long fringe covers his eyes, makes him look younger than what he is but he keeps flicking it as it gets in the way, recent addition.

“Blonds seen as more attractive but the mousy shade diffuses any extra attention, his light hair and complexion make him appear less of a threat. Size means he isn’t a complete pushover, although right now he looks smaller than he actually is curling in on himself; how different to our loud greeting. Professional. Bad haircut, self-inflected, appears stingy or misinformed-- more likely he doesn’t trust hairdressers. Although his clothes are cheap and old they’re taken care of, crisply ironed and rethreaded in some places. No friends or family, customs of independence and self-possession but moreso appearances and disguises.

“Moran approaches looking harmless then like a tiger, pounces. Accustomed to violence; at ease enough in a dangerous position enough to drop his guard. Looming in the shadow of his military deeds then, hasn’t seen a real threat for some time. Moriarty didn’t send him of course; the legend hates to be described, and his closest soldier is the best contender to do so. If Moriarty were trying to put me off as he did handing himself into the police he would make Moran’s motives ambiguous instead of issuing an unfounded ultimatum. Moran’s guarded, badly, by an associate off his boss’s books as the man in the flat one over hasn’t once looked at his phone. So, what makes Jim’s finest soldier betray him?”

“Fear,” concludes Holmes and Moran at once. _Failure._

Holmes raises an eyebrow; Watson mutters something like brilliant, his eyes vaguely dark.

“If you’re done with the stream of consciousness, I think we have terms to settle,” Sebastian states. His hands are lightly shaking. Fuck. “You keep me from him, or else.”

Holmes snorts. “Or what? Your bargaining chip has been conveniently indisposed.”

Sebastian determinately doesn’t look at Watson. “Like you said, I’m closer to Jim than anyone. Keep me safe here and I’ll help you bring him down.”

“You’re not seriously striking a deal with this traitorous bastard, are you?” Watson demands of Holmes.

The detective holds up a silencing hand. “No,” Sherlock asserts looking at Sebastian. The colonel’s heart plummets. “I don’t conspire with criminals Moran, least of all those looking to trick me beneath my own damned roof.  The fact of the matter is I don’t need you to track down Jim Moriarty _for me._ You will do it of your own accord.”

“What?” Sebastian laughs. Watson glowers.

“You needn’t worry about harbouring a wanted fugitive overnight, John,” says Sherlock. “I’m calling the police right now.”

He whips out a phone, and Sebastian’s first instinct is to _run._ This detective might be malleable but the Met will kill him on sight.

Holmes’ vision snaps to him at him and they both know what he’s planning. In those milliseconds Moran briefly considers swiping his gun off Watson who won’t shoot because Holmes has plans for Sebastian and then he sees _it_ instead and his trained eyes light up and he lunges for the violin case standing behind the bookshelf and Holmes freezes and Watson blinks.

Sebastian sprints off down the stairs. The case swings. He dashes down the hallway and footfalls smack after him.

The front door is locked. Why is the door locked? Sebastian bangs at it with his fists, not noise enough. Watson is on him. Sebastian coils and lands a fast, firm spinning kick and he’s through.

Goons and a man with an umbrella are waiting on the other side. They slam him down, knocking out his breath. Tell him they’ll fuck him up. He can’t move.

Holmes glowers furiously at Sebastian as they open the case. Watson looks something between hurt disbelief and betrayed fury.

“How did you know?” Holmes demands him, bypassing the guards as he coughs out blood. “How did you know where I hid it?”

 _Jim has a stash just like it except he plays the bass._ No. Sebastian grins. “It was wiped damp, and everything else of yours in there was dusty. What slob cleans their ratty instrument case but not their laptop?”

“A musician,” hisses Holmes. Some cover.

Sebastian had only planned to sell it, or possibly use it as blackmail to get Holmes to help with Wilkes, but this sabotage is far better and far worse.

“A user.”

Jim will hear. A stone drops in Sebastian’s throat.

Recognition flitters in Holmes’ eyes. The detective leans closer enough that the guard looks ready to shove him off. “Moriarty wants to burn the heart out of me,” he whispers, and the man in the suit is about to inject Sebastian with a sedative. Watson is yelling.

Holmes declares: “let’s see if he has one.”


End file.
